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He mumbles something.
I lean in and strain to hear. But I can’t make it out. I pull back and shake my head. “I’m sorry, I…what?”
He sighs a long, crackly sigh. Mumbles again. And then the coherent light inside him fades. He’s back to staring at nothing.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, and I collect his fallen hand and place it in his lap. I don’t know why, but that seemed like something I should ask. I want him to come back to me. I want to know what he wanted.
But it seems as though he’s gone for good now. Deflated, I recline into my rocking chair and absently push to rock, an uneasiness settling into my marrow. And then I remember what Magnolia said at dinner, how if a man’s mouth is moving, he’s probably lying.
I look to Harris again…who’s now drooling on himself.
Poor thing.
I search around us as if a rag will magically appear for me to assist him. I decide the edge of his blanket will be good enough and help him out. He’s unresponsive to my kind gesture, but that’s fine. I can’t let him sit out here in a puddle of his own drool. It’s undignified. And irritating.
Why would they leave him out here alone? I then place my hand over his, so he knows he’s not. As if, somehow, my touch will register.
It’s better if he’s not cognizant. Not with Magnolia’s butlers running around. I then wonder if they’re not so much an indulgence for her as they are punishment for Harris, and a bitterness coats my mouth at the thought. I did find some old gossip column articles on him in his glory days, when Jake was a teenager. How Harris was suspected of adultery. Womanizing.
But nothing was ever confirmed.
If it’s true, it would help other things make sense—Magnolia’s general disdain for men. Her indifference to Harris’ state. The flaunting of her butlers.
I’d like to think someone wouldn’t be that cruel. That vicious. But this is Magnolia Mitchell we’re talking about and just like what happened to Meaghan, I’m not so sure Ruby doesn’t also have a part to play in it as well. That she’s not drugging him into oblivion, like Preston also suspects but is too scared to press. Who could blame him?
I squeeze Harris’s hand, whisper, “And what do you make of all this?” What have you seen? What do you know?
If only I could crawl inside that head of his and dig around for answers. Assuming there’s anything to dig through anymore…
Or maybe that’s precisely the point; a drugged Harris is a silent Harris. Additional insurance. What the stroke didn’t take away, the drugs muzzle.
A sound interrupts my erratic brooding. Someone clearing their throat. “Hey,” I say, when my eyes lock on Jake’s.
He’s watching us fondly.
“Hey,” he replies. “Am I interrupting?”
I look back to Harris. Look to Jake. “He’s a tough crowd.”
A chuckle. “Yeah, I know.”
In that moment, when it’s just the three of us, I debate diving into my theory about what might be happening with his father, but I also don’t know who is on the other side of the wall or around the corner of the house. This is better left to when I know it’s only me and Jake.
And I have a trashcan nearby in case I puke.
“Want to go to Preston’s with me?” he asks. “I need to get something for tonight.”
My eyebrows scrunch, curious. “Sure.” I’d like to see him again anyway.
As if on cue, a butler breezes onto the porch and tends to Harris. Good thing I went with my gut of not saying anything.
“Is he normally left alone like this?” I ask the butler. It comes out accusatorily, and I honestly don’t care.
“Not for long, madame,” he replies, though he doesn’t look at me when he says it.
He then unceremoniously wheels Harris into the house.
Jake watches as they go. “Bye, Dad,” he says, trying not to sound sad, though I know him well enough now to detect the undercurrents.
I allow whatever thoughts he has to settle before I stand and brush off the seat of my leggings. I’m sure it’s dusted in yellow again. I then approach him, the dimming light in his eyes apparent and ever drawing me in, and I don’t stop until his face is cupped in my hands and his blue irises fasten to mine.
A silent exchange happens in that moment. Me, sorry for his father’s condition. Him, sorry for it too. And I rock onto the balls of my feet and brush a short, mournful kiss against his lips. Pull back. Redirect. “So, What’s at Preston’s?”
A hint of a smile. “You’ll see.”
